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Skylar Snow, Jay Romero Pic(s)
The air in the executive suite was thick with the scent of stale coffee and expensive perfume, a heady mixture that clung to the humid space between them. He watched, mesmerized, as the crisp white cotton of her blouse strained agat the generous swell of her chest with every breath she took, a single button surrendering its duty to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of lace beneath. Her skin, pale as moonlight, seemed to glow in the dimmed office light, a stark contrast to the dark wood of the desk agat which she now leaned. His fingers, calloused and sure, traced a slow, deliberate path from the delicate hollow of her throat down to the aching fullness that begged for his touch. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips as he finally cupped the heavy weight of her, his thumb brushing over a peak that hardened tantly through the fragile barrier of fabric. The city lights twinkled far below, indifferent witnesses to the intimate drama unfolding high above the sleeping streets. He lowered his mouth, his warm breath ghosting across her collarbone before his lips found the frantic pulse beating at the base of her neck. The world outside the glass walls ceased to exist, reduced to the symphony of their ragged breathing and the soft rustle of clothing being slowly, deliberately discarded. In that suspended moment, every unspoken desire converged into a single, electric point of contact, promising a culmination as inevitable as the dawn.
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